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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



OBEROD 
and Other Poems 

By 

P. F. duPont 

Author of Currente Calamo and New Poems and A Play 



1919 

Patterson & White Co. 

Philadelphia 

Pa. 






Copyright 1919 

by 
P. F. du Pont 



MAY i>9 i9i9 



©CI.A515698 



What differentiates man from other natural and organic 
substances, and approximates him to a supernatural 
substance, God, is reason, or intellect. 

Aristotle 



Proem 

The poems contained in this volume, here published 
for the first time, were written from the year 1914 
to the present date. 

The Author 



March, 1919 



Table of Contents 



Introductory 13 

Oberod 15 

Years and Change . 18 

Interrogative 21 

The Rider 23 

Song 24 

D. T's 27 

Cancer 28 

Cocaine 30 

The Yeggs 31 

The Sofa 33 

Pursued 35 

God Grant My Eyes May Ne'er Be Wet 36 

The House on the Line 37 

For 38 

A Dying Belgian at Liege 39 

1915 40 

February 1917 41 

Ignorance 42 

? 43 

To M. C. D 44 

Deaths 45 

Faith 46 



In Lighter Vein 

Wire Workers 51 

The Barkeep's Obituary 53 

Thirty-seven 54 

Flour, Lard and Bacon 55 

Armstrong's Cafe 57 

Rats 60 

To Rascovar 62 

Advice 63 

Informal 64 

To Rhymster 65 

The Settlement 66 



Introductory 



Where the spent breakers ripple from the seas 
And starry shells are strewn along the wild, 

Tread carefully, nor trample one of these, 

That might be cherished by some lovely child. 

Mayhap tomorrow or a year-a-day 

May child or children eagerly engage 

In quest for treasure glistening with spray — 

Vague treasure handed down from age to age. 

And so may songs, spurned by the hearts of men, 
Trampled, rejected, deemed as fancies wild. 

Writ on life's wave worn sands arise again 

Gladding the heart of some fair, lovely child. 



Oberod 



We lived in the land of Oberod, 
I and my wife and a little god, 
And we were as happy as we could be — as happy as mor- 
tals ever are — 
When over our happiness there came, 
(Weirdest of all the psychic things) 
Not the jealous god with the verdant wings 
Nor the scorching blast of hatred's flame — 
But ah, you never could guess, you'd fail; 
'Twas nothing less than a fox's tail. 

Think me not daft, confused, insane, 
A mental film befogged on the brain ; 

For saw I not in the clear sun-light at the place a lady 
her bustle wears 
(A pardon, I do not know with what 
To plainer designate the spot) 
A nebulous growth, a wave of hairs, 

A willowy plume that moved like a flail — 
In fact, it looked like a fox's tail. 



15 



Picture my look, my pained surprise, 
The horrible fear portrayed in my eyes — 

For when, if ever, hath mortal seen a beautiful woman 
tall and calm. 
Of stately mien and certainly proud. 
Who, willy or nilly, would care to sport 
A plumed appendage of that sort — 
A ghostly thing that moved like a shroud, 
A dingy thing that flapped like a sail — 
A horrible waving fox's tail. 

Queer the human and animal laws 

That give men brains and tomcats claws; 

But why should an aura appear so plain at a place where 
it wasn't intended it should? 
God knows! Too complex are questions such 
As this; for, whether He would decree 
That things are not what they seem to be, 
I know what I know, at least this much — 
As a wan moon will hide in a veil 
Would appear and vanish that fox's tail. 

Should we stroll the street, stop on the way. 
Speak with my friend who has said goodday, 

(My friend indeed, yet one forsooth having naught of 
good looks nor even of wit) 
There, as I live, would appear a sight. 
Appear, to dreamily wag and wave, 
A thing to drive a man to his grave — 
Suggesting well of the dogs that bite — 

But oh, to put it beyond the pale, 
That horrible waving fox's tail. 

16 



I leave my club in a gust of rain, 
The leafless branches beating the pane — 
A very night when ghouls are out, but I have to go on 
account of the storm — 
Arriving home I open the door 

And there, straight back, as stiff as a bat, 
With bristling hairs like a frightened cat, 
That vision to haunt me ever more — 

As true as a rod and as firm as a rail. 
That horrible, horrible fox's tail. 



^ 2}^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 



Am I demented, frightfully daft? 

Hark to that demon that just now laughed! 

(What right have demons to laugh when I fear naught of 
them and all their flings?) 

In the day or the night or the shine or the rain 
The vision it is that drives me insane. 
Wild with the wilful queerness of things — 

And I tremble and shiver and fearsomely quail 
From that horrible, waving fox's tail. 
That horrible, horrible fox's tail. 



17 



Years and Change 



It was a quiet place, 

Rural, remote and old; 
Of care there was never a trace 

And when it was built or sold 
Must have been years ago, 

As the rotted porch could tell. 
And the giant pines in a row 

And the crumbled pump at the well — 
But still there lingered an air of grace, 
A placid and dreamy spell. 

The house was of faded brick 

With windows up to the eaves. 
Where the moss was green and thick — 
The ivy hid with its leaves 
The stigma of time and rains 

The gutters of tin would have shown ; 
Though the glass in the window-panes 

Show'd where the shutters had blown; 
And a sparrow had built him a rick 

At the end of the window-stone. 



18 



Lilac bloomed by the wall 

And in a neglected bed 
The slender tiger-lilies tall 
Blushed a modest red; 
Had blushed and faded and died 

As the summers came with the years, 
As though they had ever tried 

To gladden one of the spheres — 
As the lilies' fate the Celt and Gaul 

And another race appears. 

The faintest line of a lane, 

Bordered with broken tile, 
Show'd an easy way to gain 

The rear of this ancient pile; 
So I followed the faint, faint road. 

As the nebula of stars. 
And came to where the old abode 

Frowned with a window of bars; 
And there at the window — I stared again — 
Was my jilted mistress of Lars. 



19 



II 

I stood as dazed 

Nor moved a trace, 
But only gazed 

At her terrible face; 
Stood and gazed as one in a dream 
And listened to that woman scream 
With head thrown back 
As though in a rack, 
With outstretched thumbs, 
With toothless gums — 
(He had drawn her teeth, 

Some pitiful elf, 
To keep her in grief 

from biting herself.) 

^ ^ Hl ^ ^ Sl^ Jl& 

^ ^^ Tf» *^ *!? tI* Tff 

So, through the bars. 
At night to the stars, 
By days to the skies 
Ring her wild cries, 
Stare her wide eyes. 
She is not blind. 
But her mind 

Has passed along with the years; 
And when one hears 

That woman's screams — 
He hears them in his dreams. 



20 



Interrogative 



Why is it while tossing in slumber 

(And with ever a waning moon) 
That demons in purple and umber 

Must jibber and jabber and croon; 
And serpents entwine, without number, 

In the hair of an octoroon? 

Why is it the rain and the sea-fog 

Have dimmed all the pane for my glances? 

Oh why from the maple the treefrog 
Must croak till his bosom dances? 

Oh why is it that Doctor Le Grog 

Drives a Ford to the morgue with his lances? 

And why must that horrible nigger 

Be trailing me ever for loot? 
I turn and fondle the trigger 

But haven't the power to shoot; 
For his hump and his crutches grow bigger, 

And his eyes are the color of soot. 

And why, when I walk by the river, 
And, watching the shipping, I pause. 

Must leap from the reeds with a quiver 
A woman with leopard's claws? 

I start with a shriek and shiver 
But it turns to a crow that caws. 



21 



And why, when I spend good money 
For a bottle of wine from Rome, 

Must spiders, crafty and funny. 
Crawl up to me out of the foam? 

Now I wish that the stuff was honey; 
Then I know they would stay at home. 

And why does the bell on the tower 
Toll marriage and fire and death? 

For marriage is hell for an hour 
And death the beginning of breath; 

And fire the emblem of power — 
For thus hath the cardinal saith. 

And why do the stars in the dipper 
Shine ever so bright in the cold. 

With two in the bowl for a tipper 
To point where the North is rolled? 

But the sexton buries the skipper 
By the light of a lanthorn old. 



22 



The Rider 

My thoughts are as a rider 

Galloping madly o'er 
(Neath a flying cloud that whispers loud) 

A desolate, savage moor. 
With quirt and spur to lash and hack, 

Loose bridle flapping free — 
He may ride for a fall with none to call 

Who rides as the like o' me ; 
For Thought is the Devil to come unsought 

On the calm of a mental sea. 



23 



Son 



Out of the morn of maidenhood, 
Here in the world we wait, 
With just one thought that never is taught 

But has come to us early or late; 
That we're to be loved and wooed and sought— 
Toys to be broken or mended again, 
Gems to be cherished or scorned of men, 
For such is a woman's fate — 
Out of the morn of maidenhood, 
Here in the world we wait. 

'Twas sweet in the morn of maidenhood 
Though here in the world we wait; 
With a mother to bear out every care 

And safely guard our fate. 
That dear old mother with silver hair. 
With the patient ways and kindly face. 
There's never another could take her place- 
The place of a mother there. 

From a mother's world in maidenhood, 
Here in the world we wait. 



24 



Because of the dreams of maidenhood, 

Here in the world we wait; 
In a girlish dream 'twill ever seem 
That the man is true and great; 
That heaven has righted the earthly scheme 
In violet, jessamine, marigold. 
And the world is small all truth to hold — 
And we hold and hold to a dream: 

Till, done with the dreams of maidenhood, 
Here in the world we wait. 

Done with the dreams of maidenhood. 

Here in the world we wait; 
To manage a match considered a catch 

Or choose a happy mate; 
Properly — no undue dispatch. 

For that is the edict of fashion's way. 
And what would Mrs. Grundy say 
Of the maid, the widower or the "batch"? 
Done with the dreams of maidenhood, 

Here in the world we wait. 



25 



Out of the morn of maidenhood, 
Here in the world we wait; 
Soon to be told that manifold 

Tale that the gods relate — 
Haply by valiant knight and bold, 

Under the silvery moon and the trees, 
Or yet in the parlor, the knight on his knees 
Or yet by a battered roue old — 
Out of the morn of maidenhood, 
Here in the world we wait. 



26 



D. T's. 

Oozing quickly, cold and horrid, 
Perspiration left my forehead, 
Streaming fast and far; 
From betwixt index and digit, 
Though I strove to hold it rigid, 
Dropt a half consumed cigar. 

Then I staggered, waving blindly. 
Though my spirit viewed it kindly, 
Then a sound of rushing waters or 
the swish of falling star ; 
Murmurs, as of waves in shallows, 
Faces, as of ghosts from gallows. 
Viewed me from afar. 

Then acute delirium tremens. 
And they say I needed three men 
Muscled up to par, 
Beating me, as cruel jailors, 
Fighting me, as drowing sailors. 
Clinging to a spar. 

Gasping, heaving at the stomach, 
As a fish upon a hummock 

When the tide's receded far; 
As the flood in all its pride. 
Ah, I only wish that I'd 
Left the other bar. 

27 



Cancer 

Oh, I do not mind the blight 

Of the years of hopeless fight 

That that eye's receding sight 
Should remain; 
But 'tis awful, is the knowing 
That the bleeding thing is growing. 
And in spite of all is going to my brain. 

Why should I have been selected? 

Groomed and nourished, housed, protected, 
Wealthy, happy, well respected — 
What a random shot of Fate! 
Just a little thing in starting. 
Watering, and slightly smarting; 
Then the water took to darting 
Drops upon my plate. 

In the months that have gone by 

I'd a patch upon my eye ; 

Told my friends 'twas but a sty — 

And went about amid the fields of grain. 
But 'twas not the grain that's growing. 
The grain that I kept flowing. 
The grain that I kept stowing — 

But the liquid grain I soaked to drown the pain. 



28 



Then the patch that hid my woes 
Was undone, because my nose 
Was divested of its clothes 
In a fleshy sort of way; 
So I walked about the place 
With a very open face, 
And I thought it no disgrace 
To consume two quarts a day. 

Now I long for death, the answer 
That must follow a true cancer; 
Yes, I long for the white prancer 
With it's rider with the scythe; 
And before my God I swear it, 
Aye, will shout till all men share it, 
I would rather die than bear it — 
Be in Hell than be alive. 



29 



Cocaine 

It, powdered white, has made a many a king, 
Castles in air and the strength of a steed; 

But can you resist to the after ring 

Of the starving nerves you're a king indeed. 



30 



The Yeggs 



Fallen with ill companions in their youth, 

Hard-pressed mechanics, broke with debt and toil, 

Dope fiends and dips to stall for them and sleuth — 
Nightly the yeggs discuss their plans of spoil. 

Their rendezvous (sans dire) is in the slum, 
Back room of some saloon or up the stairs 

To dusty chambers where the trusted come — 
A table, with a lamp and broken chairs 

Are set for this directors' nightly meeting, 
Facing, with wise precaution, to the door. 

So if, per chance, inspectors come with greeting, 
Bang goes the lamp and all the cannon roar. 

As samples of physique their grade is par. 
At home with iron, malleable and wrought. 

Expert with tumbler, drill or furnace-bar. 
They graduated in the branches taught. 

Their greasy "soup" is fashioned to destroy 
The postal office safes with muffled jolts; 

Their powder's smokeless, with the balls alloy — 
The guns they carry, as a rule, are Colts. 



31 



Though crime is crime, we must admit the thrill 
Begot of risk and strife mid moonlight fair; 

The scent of tasselled corn is sweeter still 

In night than day — a freight demands no fare. 

The soft, sweet air that midnight always stirs. 
Cloudy, or rifted moon or many stars : 

Creeping a pole where many a wire whirs. 
That left uncut might land you back o' bars. 

The barking farm-dog's crazy moon-struck bay, 
The dingy railroad village rapt in sleep — 

Then blow the safe and make your get-a-way 
With stickers Uncle Sam had tried to keep. 



32 



The Sofa 

There's a sofa in a club where old men lie and die, 
There's a sofa in a club and the young sports pass it by, 
They pass in to the club bar and sign for rye and gin — 
For the sofa in the club is for the old man that is in. 

We had a noted judge once whose knowledge was profound, 
Who drank his liquor neatly and never missed a round, 
But cirrhosis of the liver carried ofif the poor old guy 
From the sofa in the club where old men lie and die. 

A prominent physician held a membership for years, 

I hear his stories even now that brought us mirth, to tears, 

But he dropped upon the pavement when the sofa wasn't 
nigh — 

The sofa in the club where old men lie and die. 

And the Captain, ah, the Captain upon the sofa there. 
The way he'd look behind it was enough to raise your hair; 
But he didn't have guts left to stand a pesky typhoid fly, 
So retreated from the sofa where old men lie and die. 

Then a rising young attorney threw a triple plated fit 
Of real old fashioned tremens so we held him down a bit 
In a most gigantic struggle till he heaved a rasping sigh 
And finished on the sofa where old men lie and die. 



33 



Our courtly town historian with manner suave and grand 
Had vow'd he had it in for every bottle in the land — 

At least he tried to finish them when any one would buy; 

So had to leave the sofa where old men lie and die. 

So when the years have passed away and sports have gotten 
tame, 

And I have gone upon the shelf unfit for every game, 
I still may find a haven where I may safely hie — 
The sofa in the club where old men lie and die. 

There's a sofa in a club where old men lie and die, 
There's a sofa in a club and the young sports pass it by, 
They pass in to the club bar and sign for rye and gin — 
For the sofa in the club is for the old man that is in. 



34 



Pursued 

Four evil spirits are on my track; 

Two female, two male — one white, one black. 

One evil spirit a woman fair, 
Evil of eye and of raven hair. 

Another a woman of seventy years 
Plotting as though the God never hears. 

One a youth ever acting a part, 
Manly of form but a cur at heart, 

And a horrible slave, a crippled black — 
The fourth evil spirit on my track. 

So I pray the dear Lord who died on the cross 
To baffle their efforts, to put them to loss. 

For four evil spirits are on my track; 

Two female, two male — one white, one black. 



35 



God Grant My Eyes May Ne'er be Wet 

God grant my eyes may ne'er be wet 
With tears but shed in selfish sorrow; 

These days no dreary dramas set 
And fairer yet may be the morrow. 

But should my eyes be wet with tears 
Where life's wan actors play their parts, 

May they remain throughout the years 
Tears for the hurts of other hearts. 



The House on the Line 

Drab faded walls and shutters once a green, 

Old roof of tin painted a dull maroon, 
Four chimney-pots and centred in between 

A cupola for viewing sun and moon; 

The lawn, a dusting yard where chickens croon, 
The latticed porch and giant trumpet vine, 

Speak well of splendor, vanished all too soon. 
At the house upon the line. 



37 



For 

If all the imagery of hidden past 

Lies in thine eyes, dear love, as it would seem, 
Then mine are Hindu shrines from cities vast, 
Temples and towers pictured in a dream; 
Fair bending forms, tresses of burnished gold, 

And all the ancient lure of power and love, 
Pomp, pleasure, majesty and wealth untold, 
But better far than these and far above — 
The love of you, love, love. 



38 



A Dying Belgian at Liege 

\ I "All hail, Death Angel ! Welcome ! I wait with open arms." 

L That cold, relentless mien, 

Terrific, will-bespeaking look, 
I smiling view, as would a child unseen 

Gaze on the lovely pictures in a book. 

Ah, very much again I feel a child; 

Alone, unknown, pensive though far from sad — 
Not your firm grip, the coming journey wild. 

Duty well done, none of these make me glad — 
But that I say: "All hail. Death Angel! Hail! 
Welcome!" You shall not see me quail. 



39 



I9I5 

Ghouls, bloated with stupidity and pride, 

Preventing peace and generating war. 
Strut this broad land as with a giant's stride — 

This moneyed land of Thor. 

x\nd by the streams within a yellow haze 
A thousand plants are running triple time 

To feed destroyers lurking in the bays, 

Huge field guns crouching muddy with the slime. 

Shrapnel and fuse and tons of nitric hell. 
Rifles, machine-guns, bayonets and swords, 

Powder for small arms and the giant shell 
That bury men by hundreds in the swards. 

And there, the blasted field, the hard held trench, 
Ten thousand dead men with their arms thrown wide; 

And here, a thirst for gain blood cannot quench, 
Mansions and motors, pleasure — bloated pride. 

Ghouls, bloated with stupidity and pride, 

Preventing peace and generating war, 
Strut this broad land as with a giant's stride — 

This moneyed land of Thor. 



* This poem, written in 1915, expresses the impression made on the 
author's mind at that time that our country should be in the war — not 
content with the manufacture of munitions for the Allies. 

40 



February 1917 



Sweet dreamless sleeps begot of filled desires 

And days that pass as mist before the sun; 
Little we know how anxiously our sires 

Watch for our battle flags, hark for the opening gun. 



41 



Ignorance 



Red gore about as deep as seven seas, 
And winds that wail o'er heaps of bones for isles; 
Is it a dove that last must bring release, 
Seeking an arc o'er many sanguineous miles? 

Or is the sword of that young land to hew 
A path to vic'try and a Caesar's fate, 
Neath the fair furls of the red, white and blue, 
Bright with the stars of many a sovereign state? 

Peace! O, America, you know no peace. 
While Freedom still is fettered down in chains; 
They called you craven, loving well your ease, 
Rot with the canker-worm of seeking gains; 
But little do they know the stripes and stars, 
Of that brave flag borne through victorious wars. 



42 



Small, round and trim, studded with roughened pits. 

With giant strength I push the shining steel ; 
I soothe and comfort, sharpen woman's wits, 
A factor great am I for woe and weal ; 
I grind the tyrant man beneath my heel ; 
Abashed, he hesitates where I am used, 
And oh, the drudgery when I'm abused 
By over work — how brain and body reel! 

I am a power great of will, a symbol 

Of work and care and love — a woman's thimble. 



43 



To M. C. D. 

You who are sweet and wise, 

You who can pen a lay, 
You with the thoughtful eyes — 

Violet, brown or gray — 
It is not hard for one who tries 

To picture you today. 

You with the woman's harp, 

You say: — "Of one slight string." 

Ah, would that half the bards that carp 
Could half so sweetly sing — 

For to hold the thrust of a pen that's sharp 
Is not a little thing. 

You say: — "Heed not the voices at your feet." 
Ah, noble Mary, that is noble, fine; 

'Twere better, better far to ne'er retreat. 
To be yourself, than barken to the kine 

That only see above the grasses, sweet. 

And miss the glories of the far sky-line. 



44 



Deaths 

When e'er I hear a friend has passed away 

Around whose shoulder may have lain my arm, 
Whose ear has heard some word of comfort given; 
My sorrow is assuaged to know the day, 

When it was said and how — but, oh, the harm 
Where hating foes pass out with hatred riven. 



45 



Faith 

I am a mountain, small, it is true. 

But here I stand and gaze at the blue 
Higher and stronger and greater and free 
Mountains that gaze at the far off sea. 
Yes, I am a mountain — some call me a hill- 
But I know I am really a mountain still. 



46 



In Lighter Vein 



Wire Workers 

Her dulcet tones o'er wires came, 

Her "number please" was quite angelic; 
I pictured her a stately dame 

As on daguerreotype a relic: 
But having then to call her down 

About the wretched, local service, 
She spoke as one who'd drop a gown — 

And not be nervous. 

Another day: so soft her tone 

That butter wouldn't melt her mouth in, 
As soft as gentle breezes blown 

When blowing, blowing from the South in. 
But when I had to state I'd care 

For Kennett Square and not West Chester, 
Her answer came as sweeps the blare 

Of a Nor'wester. 



51 



Uenuoi 

Oh women, women, work your wire, 

And every fancied slight, pray, cry at; 
Touch Dad or Hub or aunt Maria 

For bank account or Fiat. 
Vague angels ye remain who tree 

Analysis of men that view you — 
Not half as well we'd love could we 

See through you. 



52 



The Barkeep's Obituary 

They buried you simply, poor bartender, 

But quiet and calm shall be your sleep 
For the cooling drinks in the glasses slender, 

For the jokes we laughed at long and deep — 
Kindly to all, bummer or spender, 

Gone where there isn't a bar to keep. 

Well I remember you, poor barkeeper, 

There in the sun by the swinging door. 
Ready to enter and draw us a heaper. 

Ready to smile at the joke of a bore — 
Yes, I remember you, quiet sleeper; 

Where you've gone do they saw-dust the floor? 

You've served for the last time, poor old fellow. 

This verse may make some reformers raw; 
Though their steps are straight their hearts are yellow- 

What are those goods labled "drugs" I saw? 
So what's the use to put up a bellow; 

If you must be a crow — don't caw. 



53 



Thirty-seven 



Some lines I wrote at twenty-one, 
At manhood's young beginning — 

The things I now consider fun 
I then considered sinning. 

Poor shy and vacillating youth 

Who pondered moral theories, 
,How could you work them out (good sooth) ! 

When failed the Greeks, the dearies. 

How could you walk the narrow row 

In righteousness to tread good, 
When all your oats, that youth must sow, 

Were made to semble redwood? 

Poor youth, pray tell me how you knew 

There at that early starting. 
With all those screeds of "do," "not do", 

Which way the ways were parting? 

Would I again were twenty-one, 

But ah, 'tis near to heaven, 
To know the world, that son-of-a-gun, 

And laugh at thirty-seven. 



54 



Flour, Lard and Bacon 

Flour, lard and bacon, 

How my mem'ry flies 
To the windy ridges. 
To the wintry skies. 
To the snow'd in lean-to. 

With a blizzard makin', 
Forget? Well I don't mean to — 
Flour, lard and bacon. 

Flour, lard and bacon. 
Let us take a trip 
On the wings of mem'ry 
To a gallant ship 
Off her course and fighting, 
By the rollers shaken. 
When all hands were biting 
Flour, lard and bacon. 

Flour, lard and bacon, 

Where the birches quiver 
(Evening glow and wood-smoke) 
By the roarin' river; 
Where the teepees shelter, 

And, when you awaken, 
Cook and swear and swelter — 
Flour, lard and bacon. 



55 



Flour, lard and bacon, 

Down in Princess Anne, 
Where the sweatin' niggers 
(Every shade of tan) 
Hunt the woods about there 
For the possum fakin'. 
But would die without their 
Flour, lard and bacon. 

Flour, lard and bacon. 

Dining with a swell. 
Tempting weary appetites 
In a grand hotel ; 
Gaze upon the bill of fare, 

Then, as though mistaken, 
Ask the waiter (watch him stare) 
For flour, lard and bacon. 



56 



Armstrong's Cafe 

In the little town o' Charlotts 

There were many groceries, 
With snug apartments rearward 

Where the fellows took their sprees; 
But the other side o' Clearmont 

An' down to Gleason way, 

Was Armstrong's Cafe. 

To me it was a haven 

Where care could never come, 
An' I loved to go an' get on what 

Some people call a bum; 
But there's different ways o' seein' things 

An' so I used to stay 

In Armstrong's Cafe. 

They'd a badly battered monkey 

In a chicken-wire cage. 
An', I tell you, you were sportin' 

When you got him in a rage; 
An' he come from Nicaragua 

All the fellows used to say 

In Armstrong's Cafe. 



57 



They'd a pair o' giant lizards 

An' they come from Ecuador, 
They was always wet an' shinin' 

An' a-crawlin' on the floor; 
An' I think it wasn't right to have 

Them creepin' things that way, 

In Armstrong's Cafe. 

The first time that I seen 'em 

I nearly throw'd a fit, 
It's what you call the Willies 

But I haven't had 'em yit, 
An' I left my beer unfinished, 

An' I didn't stop to pay 

In Armstrong's Cafe. 

Them was the days delightful 

O' many a joyous drunk, 
When some o' us had broken heads 
An' some was put to bunk; 
Once in the pyrotechnic line 
We had a grand display 
In Armstrong's Cafe. 

A bunch o' burly boozers, 

What come from Gleason's stage. 
Said they could put us fellows 

Into the monkey's cage ; 
We told 'em they was liars 

An' at once we set the day, 

For Armstrong's Cafe. 

58 



That night most all our hoisters 

Was lined behind the bar, 
With stacks o' Roman candles 

Built for shootin' hard an' far, 
An' when that Gleason crowd come in 

We lit an' blazed away, 

In Armstrong's Cafe. 

The room was jest a-dancin' 

With different colored balls, 
A-chasin' one another 

On the ceiling an' the walls; 
Next mornin' in The Progress was the headin' 

"Bloody fray 

In Armstrong's Cafe." 

I love to ponder o'er them times, 

Now distant and remote — 
How many a glass o' beer I've had, 

How many a brandy float, 
How many a merry night I've spent, 

How many a pleasant day, 

In Armstrong's Cafe. 



59 



Rats 



Rats that looked at me suspiciously, 
Rats that licked their chops deliciously, 
Rats that laughed, 
Rats that chaffed, 

Rats with neckties red and blue; 
Rats that leered or sneered or pouted. 
Rats that backed away and shouted — 
Rats that curved their tails and flew. 

Oh, there were little rats as small as hornets; 
Oh, there were giant rats with eyes like garnets; 
Slim rats with Derby hats 
And polished shoes; 
Shy rats that spoke to me apologetically. 
Rats with vile eyes that looked at me magnetically. 
Gray rats, brown rats, black rats, 
Rats of their varied hues. 

Honest rats with princely mien and noble, 

Rats with fearless eyes and many pards, 
Trouble broken rats, or hunting trouble, 
Rats that take too long to shuffle cards; 
Rats with stocks and bonds, 
Rats that swim in ponds. 
Rats that really don't know what to do ; 
Rats that smoke cigars, 
Rats that ride in cars. 
Rats that have to live on Irish stew. 

60 



Glad rats, sad rats, rats in all political, 

Suave and silent rats that listen well, 
Comic rats that wouldn't scare a witty gal. 

Green fanged rats that gnawed their way from hell; 
Rich rats, poor rats, weak rats, strong rats, 
Rats in hobble skirts and picture hats; 
Rats with flowing bowls, 
Rats with eyes like coals; 
Nothing in the world but rats. 



61 



To Rascovar 

We would tell you how we love you, Rascovar; 
In our grateful hearts the kindest feelings are; 

O'er the fields of cotton hazy, 

Where grow the futures mazy, 
We have followed, followed, followed Rascovar. 

When you turned and sold it, did we, Rascovar? 

Well, you bet we did, you kiddo, you're a star. 
In a storm of bales and linters 
Knocked the public into splinters — 

The public that's unknown to Rascovar. 

So we gathered in the shekels, Rascovar, 

From the cotton fields 'neath southern sun and star, 

Where the banjo and the hoe-cake 

And the possum and the canebrake 
Are little known to good old Rascovar. 

So goodbye and kindest wishes, Rascovar; 

For you know we followed, followed, followed far. 

Should you raise again your banner. 

Make a play in such a manner, 
We shall rally, rally round you, Rascovar. 



62 



Ad 



vice 



Never forget to watch the anxious friend, 
Who, interested, asks your plans and way; 

Few, in this world, are they who counsel lend 
Without some axe to grind, some snare to lay. 



63 



Informal 

With dauntless zeal she'd touch her ivory keys 
In studied pause or hurried little snatches; 

And I, endeavoring to take my ease, 
I v^ished she was in Natchez. 



64 



To Rhymster 

Rhymster, if oft within your soul, 
You feel a "caged bird fluttering"; 

Take my advice and bust its wing 
To hold its yearnings in control. 



65 



The Settlement 



With left hand clasped in left hand they stood and shot 

it out, 
And of all the folk on the mountain none know'd what it 
was about; 
But where the rays of the rising sun first touch yon 

rocky hill 
Are the graves of "Hangdog" Harry and of "Fear No 
Poison" Bill. 



66 



